As the winter was overtaking the territory of Poland in the village inns people talked more and more about the impending end of the world. Mostly they feared the ancient catastrophes. They announced the beginning of the last big war, the last calamity that is still inscribed onto the bodies of the oldest villagers. The arrival of the cold wind from the north, the one reminding us that all substances are eventually porous, invited the torrents that once slipped unnoticed past all senses defying the strong gravity of the everyday village life, dragging the men to the other side of the mountains in the east. Their women dreamed their laying bodies merged with the monotonous landscape of the long abandoned fields and that they are slowly being covered with fog struggling to permeate the horrendous cold. They were not sure if that was death or just the way to exist on the other side of those mountains in the east. Then they stopped dreaming forgetting that they ever had husbands. What remained were just names that no one knew who they belonged to, having been carved into the walls of a votive chapel and written down onto the inn's list of debtors. But soon even that written trail disappeared. Having no anchor in the real world and unpronounced, the letters collapsed forming inarticulate blots. During the last of the great wars people in Poland disappeared in massive numbers, but no one talked about that. In the voice torn with silent trepidation everybody at the time talked about the wheat that will remain unharvested thus sharply cutting through the young snow, the potatoes that will remain rotting in the ground and eating away at the soil like a gangrene, the plums that will putrefy unpicked on the trees, their sweetness that will unpacked into the glass jars drip from the branches so sticky to drawn the whole world.

© translated by Damir Šodan

Kako je zima preuzimala vlast nad prostorom Poljske, tako se u seoskim krčmama sve češće govorilo o nadolazećoj propasti svijeta. Najviše se strepilo od davnih katastrofa. Najavljivao se početak posljednjega velikog rata, najveće pošasti koja je još urezana u tijelima najstarijih seljana. Dolazak hladnog vjetra sa sjevera, onog koji nas podsjeća da je sva materija u konačnici porozna, prizivao je bujice koje su se jednom promigoljile neopaženo mimo svih osjetila i prkoseći snažnoj gravitaciji seoske svakodnevice, odvukle muškarce s onu stranu istočnih planina. Njihove žene sanjale su da im se polegla tijela stapaju s jednoličnim krajolikom odavno zapuštenih polja i da ih polako prekriva magla koja se mučno probija kroz neljudsku hladnoću. Nisu znale je li to smrt ili samo način na koji se postoji s onu stranu istočnih planina. Onda su prestale sanjati i zaboravile da su imale muževe. Ostala su samo imena za koja više nitko nije znao kome pripadaju, uklesana u zavjetnoj kapelici, upisana u popisu dužnika u krčmi. No ubrzo je i taj pisani trag nestao. Bez uporišta u svijetu i neizgovarana, slova su se urušila u nečitljive mrlje. Za posljednjeg velikog rata u Poljskoj su ljudi hrpimice nestajali, ali o tome se nije govorilo. Glasa iskidana muklom strepnjom, svi su tada neprestano govorili o žitu koje će ostati nepožeto i oštro razderati mladi snijeg, krumpiru koji će neizvađen istrunuti i poput gangrene izjesti utrobu zemlje, šljivama koje će neobrane sagnjiti na stablima, njihovu sladoru koji će nepohranjen u staklenke zimnice iscuriti s grana i ljepljiv ugušiti svijet.

© Ivan Šamija